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  “I had the phone turned off,” Stark said. “I was working on ARCANE.”

  Dane's eyes gleamed briefly. “To quote Maud, when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade, hmm?”

  “This is not a good time to quote Maud,” Stark warned.

  ARCANE was his newest brainchild, a highly flexible computer security program based on principles he had developed from what the popular press called chaos theory. Stark preferred to term the new field that existed at the frontiers of math and physics “the science of complexity.”

  He did not like the word chaos. In his mind it did not conjure up what it did for most scientists, an image of seemingly random signals and movements awaiting the discovery of the patterns hidden in them. For Stark, true chaos was an empty universe shrouded in an endless night. It was a place where everything was meaningless. A place where he was utterly, completely alone. And it existed inside a sorcerer's cauldron that was buried somewhere deep inside him.

  Dane laced his fingers together and eyed Stark with a thoughtful gaze. “I hate to inquire, but sheer, morbid curiosity compels me. Have you heard from Pamela?”

  “No.”

  “Just as well, I suppose.”

  “I agree. Pamela and I don't have a lot to talk about at the moment.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Dane said. “A cancelled wedding has got to be a hell of a lot cheaper than a divorce.”

  “You didn't see the bill from the caterer.”

  Dane chuckled. “That may be so, but I speak from experience. Don't forget, I'm still writing out checks to Alicia. I'll bet they're a lot bigger than your check to the caterer.”

  Stark didn't argue. Alicia was Dane's second ex-wife. The marriage had lasted less than a year. Dane had recently paid a fortune to her in the divorce settlement.

  “I suggested that you have Alicia sign a prenuptial agreement,” Stark said. “You should have learned your lesson after Elizabeth left you.”

  “Guess I'm just a romantic at heart.” Dane's mouth twisted. “Unlike you.”

  Stark sat down behind his desk. “You saw where being logical and businesslike about marriage got me on Saturday.”

  “True. It was not a pretty sight. That makes two strikes. Think you'll ever go for a third?”

  “Do me a favor,” Stark muttered. “Don't even mention the possibility.”

  Dane twitched the crease in his slack. “What happens next?”

  “Business as usual,” Stark said. “I'm fine-tuning ARCANE. Now that I don't have to take ten days off to go sit on a beach in Bora Bora, I should finish ahead of schedule. I think I'll have the last of the bugs worked out of the program by August.”

  Dane pursed his lips. “That is ahead of schedule. Two months ahead.”

  “I'm not having much trouble with the usual program glitches,” Stark said. “Things are going well. Have Lancaster start work on the sales projections.”

  “Right.”

  “And remember,” Stark muttered, “I want conservative numbers, not blue sky figures.”

  “I'll tell Lancaster.” Dane grinned. “But don't blame me if he comes back with rosy projections. I think he's sweet on Maud.”

  “God help us.”

  In the days that followed his cancelled wedding, Stark did what he always did when things went wrong in his life. He buried himself in work.

  He did not surface until two weeks later when Maud stationed herself in the doorway of his office and cleared her throat in a manner that boded ill.

  She had to clear her throat twice because Stark was concentrating on a spreadsheet that Dane, who was sitting in his favorite chair in front of Stark's desk, had just handed to him. He looked up reluctantly.

  “What is it, Maud?”

  “Your social schedule for the next three months, sir.”

  A chill of alarm went through Stark. “What social schedule?”

  Maud held up a notebook. “The one Miss Bedford arranged for you before the wedding.”

  “Damn,” Stark said. He thought quickly. “Cancel everything.”

  “I don't think that's such a good idea, sir.” Maud glanced at Dane for backup.

  “She's right,” Dane said. “Pamela consulted with me a month ago regarding that schedule. Everything on it is business-related. You put that side of things in her hands, remember?”

  “Hell, yes, I remember.” Stark felt trapped. “But that was when I thought I was going to get married.”

  “I realize that,” Dane said. “But business is business.”

  Stark eyed Maud warily. “What, exactly, is on that schedule?”

  Maud glanced down at the list in her hand. “You're hosting cocktail parties and buffets following each of the seminars on computer security that we're putting on once a month. The first is in two weeks. There are three receptions for various clients and corporate officers scheduled, a couple of charity events—”

  “Charity events.” Stark glowered at her. “What do charity events have to do with business?”

  Dane stirred in his chair. “Those are the kind of events where you mingle with the movers and shakers, Stark. It's where business contacts are made. Pamela knew that. It was why she put them on your schedule.”

  “Damn.” Stark took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Give me a minute to think.”

  Maud fell silent. Dane waited expectantly.

  Inspiration struck. Stark slowly replaced his glasses. “What I need is a professional.”

  Maud tilted her head to one side. “A professional?”

  “Yes.” Stark opened a desk drawer and pulled out a folder full of business cards. He slipped Desdemona's out of the plastic envelope. “Give the owner of this firm a call. Tell her what we need. See if she'll commit to a contract to handle all of Stark Security Systems' social events for the next quarter. We'll need her to cater and act as hostess at the events.”

  Maud walked to the desk and squinted at the card. “Right Touch Catering Services. Got it.”

  Dane's brows rose. “That's the firm that handled your wedding, isn't it?”

  “My nonwedding.”

  “A professional caterer under contract to us,” Dane mused. “Not a bad idea.”

  “Thank you,” Stark said. He was suddenly unaccountably pleased with himself. “I should have thought of this days ago.”

  Dane smiled. “You always were the brains of the outfit.”

  Maud beamed. “When life give you lemons…”

  The door of Desdemona's glass-walled office slammed open shortly after ten on Monday morning. Rafael Crumpton, ice sculptor and part-time server, struck a dramatic pose.

  He was dressed in the pristine white uniform and cap that all of Desdemona's employees were required to wear when on duty in the firm's kitchens.

  “Desdemona, I don't know how to tell you this, but I must leave you. Please don't hate me.”

  Desdemona frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “I must follow my destiny. I told you when I took this job that I was meant for bigger and better things. I know that it will be difficult for you to go on without me, but you will survive. You're strong, Desdemona.”

  “Rafael, close the door, sit down, and tell me what's going on.”

  Rafael straightened, shut the door, and dropped into the chair on the other side of Desdemona's desk. “I've got a new job.”

  Desdemona groaned. “Oh, damn.”

  “I'm going to the Fountains, the new hotel in Bellevue.”

  Desdemona was stunned. “You're going to leave me for a hotel job on the Eastside? For crying out loud, Rafael, you'll be doing ice carvings for Sunday brunches. You call that destiny?”

  Rafael gave her a mournful look. “I knew you would take this hard. It wasn't an easy decision, Desdemona. But I've been promised complete artistic freedom.” He spread his hands. “How could I refuse?”

  “This is all because I made you do those swans for the Stark-Bedford wedding, isn't it? You're still in a snit because I w
ouldn't let you sculpt your own designs.”

  “My designs were exquisite,” Rafael retorted. “I took my inspiration from the Kama Sutra. They were perfectly suited to a wedding banquet.”

  “Rafael, be honest. Don't you think a series of ice sculptures featuring naked couples in various sexual positions would have been just a tad much for the buffet table of a formal wedding?”

  “My designs were a superb realization of wedding-night ecstasy.”

  “What would you know about wedding-night ecstasy? You've never been married. In any event the Stark-Bedford reception was a very classy affair. Your sculptures would have shocked the guests.”

  Rafael gave her a reproachful look. “A true artist cannot allow himself to be chained by the mediocre tastes of the rabble. Nor can he allow his patron to dictate his creative vision.”

  “I'm not your patron, I'm your employer.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You think you're actually going to be allowed to carve anything you want to carve at the Fountains?”

  “That's what I have been promised.”

  Desdemona lost her temper. “All right, go ahead and take the job. See how long you get to enjoy your artistic freedom. When are you leaving?”

  “Today.”

  Desdemona was outraged. “You can't leave today. I've got the Cosini luncheon on Thursday and the Lambeth-Horton wedding on Friday. I'd planned to have ice sculptures on the tables for both events.”

  “I'm sorry, Desdemona.” Rafael got to his feet. “You must find someone else to do your silly swans and dolphins. I am no longer willing to compromise my integrity as an artist. I must seek my true path.”

  “Rafael, wait.” Desdemona leaped out of her chair and started around the edge of the desk. “Let's talk about this.”

  “There is nothing more to discuss. I must be free of the shackles of commercial art.” Rafael flung open the door.

  “Damn it, you're going to regret this. If you think your new employer is going to let you do a bunch of sexy ice sculptures for the Eastside Sunday brunch crowd, you've got another thought coming.”

  The phone rang on Desdemona's desk. She snatched up the receiver. “Right Touch.”

  “Desdemona Wainwright, please.”

  Business first. Desdemona forced herself to speak calmly and pleasantly. “This is Desdemona Wainwright. How can I help you?”

  “This is Maud Pitchcott. I'm calling on behalf of Mr. Stark of Stark Security Systems.”

  Desdemona's hand clenched around the phone. For some reason she was suddenly a little breathless. “What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Stark wants to know if you would be interested in a contract with this firm. He would like to hire you as a social event consultant.”

  “A social event consultant?” Desdemona waved Rafael out of the office. She sank slowly back down into her chair.

  “You would assume the responsibility for handling all of Stark Security Systems' social commitments for the next three months. You would also act as his hostess when necessary. Are you interested in the contract, Miss Wainwright?”

  “Are you kidding?” Desdemona grabbed a pen. “I mean, yes. Yes, I'm definitely interested.”

  “In that case, Mr. Stark would like to see you in his office this afternoon.”

  Anticipation and satisfaction surged through Stark as he watched Desdemona sign the catering contract. Absolutely perfect. He should have thought of this day he'd found himself standing alone at the altar. He wondered what the hell had taken him so long to realize that Desdemona was the answer to all his problems.

  She put down the pen at that moment and raised her eyes to meet his. She smiled. Stark stopped breathing. He felt something twist deep inside him.

  Perfect.

  He took a deep breath and pulled himself together. This was business, he reminded himself sternly. “You don't have any objection to acting as my hostess?”

  “No, not at all. Most people in your position have someone around who can help them host a business affair. A wife or a husband or, a, uh, something….” She broke off, blushing.

  His recent debacle of a marriage hung in the air between them. Stark could see the sympathy in Desdemona's eyes, and it annoyed him. He didn't want sympathy. He wanted…something else.

  He wanted her.

  The realization poleaxed him.

  “A something,” he repeated carefully.

  “Yes,” she said hastily. “But once in a while a single person finds himself or herself in your shoes, and in those cases it's not uncommon to hire a professional hostess.”

  “Good. Excellent.” He looked at her, unable to think of anything else to say. He badly wanted to delay her departure from his office, but he could not seem to find a clever way to do it. “Well, that's that.”

  “Right.” She leaped to her feet as though the chair in which she had been sitting had been wired for electricity and someone had just flipped the switch. “I'll look forward to working with you. I'm sure you'll find Right Touch will suit all your catering needs.”

  “Needs.” He had a lot of them, he though wistfully. So many needs. Odd that he hadn't realized how strong those needs were until this moment.

  “I trust you'll be satisfied,” she added earnestly.

  “Satisfied. Yes. That would be nice.”

  “I will personally do my best to see that you don't regret this decision.” She put out her hand.

  He got to his feet and closed his fingers around hers. Tightly. “I'm sure I won't.” He stared down into her eyes. After a moment he felt her fingers wriggle like so many trapped birds. He realized he'd been holding her hand for a long time.

  She smiled very brightly as she tried to tug her fingers free. “Good-bye.”

  Reluctantly he let go of her hand. “Good-bye, Desdemona.”

  She bolted for the door, her copy of the contract clutched in her small fist.

  Stark watched the door close behind her.

  Perfect.

  Juliet, Kirsten, and Henry were waiting for Desdemona two hours later when she sailed triumphantly back through the alley entrance of Right Touch.

  “Did you get the contract?” Juliet demanded.

  “I got it.” Desdemona waved the contract in the air. “My friends, this is the beginning of a beautiful business relationship. Once the word gets out that we are the exclusive caterers for Stark Security Systems, we will be unstoppable. Companies all over town will be begging for our services.”

  Kirsten laughed. “Enough about the business side of this. I've got a more interesting question. Was Pamela Bedford right?”

  “About what?” Desdemona regarded the contract in her hand with smug delight.

  “Does Stark really wear jeans and running shoes to the office?”

  “Yes, he does.” Desdemona studied Stark's signature at the bottom of the precious contract. It was a big, bold, utterly masculine signature. “And a cute little plastic pocket protector.”

  Henry put a hand to his heart and groaned. “How can you work for someone who wears a nerd pack?”

  Desdemona fixed everyone present with a steely glare. “I want to make something very clear here. There will be no nerd-bashing allowed. Stark is now a valued client. As such, unless he turns out to be a mass-murderer, he can do no wrong. Understood?”

  Henry saluted smartly. “Understood, oh great, exalted leader.”

  Kirsten laughed. “Got it.”

  Juliet smiled, but her expression turned speculative. “Understood.”

  “Excellent.” Desdemona swung around on her heel. “If anyone needs me, I'll be in my office admiring my new contract with Stark Security Systems.” And thinking about the deeply disturbing sensation she had experienced when she had seen him again that afternoon.

  Desdemona had a full measure of the Wainwright intuition. She could feel it humming inside herself at that very moment. This second encounter with Stark had been no accident. A Wainwright knew the hand of destiny when she saw it in
action.

  Two weeks ago when she had first met Stark she had wondered about what might have happened had they come together in another place and another time.

  Now she would have a chance to find out.

  4

  Two weeks later Stark stood with Dane McCallum and surveyed the lively crowd of people gathered in his living room. A sense of relief flooded through him. No one looked bored or uncomfortable. His guests appeared to be enjoying themselves. The food was terrific, and the service was flawless.

  This was the first event that Right Touch had orchestrated for Stark Security Systems since Stark had signed the contract with Desdemona.

  The cocktail party and buffet tonight followed a day-long seminar on corporate security issues that Stark Security Systems had put on for the benefit of potential clients. The seminar, so far as Stark was concerned, had been the easy part. It was the socializing afterward that he had dreaded. He always dreaded the social stuff.

  No more. Desdemona had taken care of everything.

  “You're going to have a hard time getting rid of this bunch,” Dane remarked. “They're all having a good time.”

  “I'm telling you, McCallum, the decision to hire a professional caterer was the best idea I've had since I worked out the basic theory behind ARCANE's programming.”

  “I'm not sure I'd go that far.”

  “I would.” Stark was feeling almost euphoric with success. “Desdemona's operation runs like clockwork. There hasn't been a single glitch. And all I had to do was authorize the check. This is the way to do it, McCallum. Don't know why I didn't think of it earlier.”

  Dane's mouth curved. “Sort of like having a wife-in-name-only, would you say?”

  Stark was pleased with the analogy. “Exactly. All the convenience, none of the hassle.”

  “And none of the fun?”

  “I wouldn't know about that part.” Stark took a swallow of wine from his glass. “I've never managed to get myself married.”

  “You don't know what you're missing.” Dane cast a speculative glance at Desdemona, who was busy on the other side of the room. “Then again, maybe you aren't missing a damn thing. Maybe you've got it all.”